


The Baker's Street

by PhoenixandMuser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixandMuser/pseuds/PhoenixandMuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written on request for the AU prompt: John owns a bakery that Sherlock uses as a stakeout place for one of his crimes.<br/>Inspired by this adorable picture http://sphotos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-frc3/1011385_416368628477575_206337587_n.jpg</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Baker's Street

**Author's Note:**

> The perspectives alternate between John and Sherlock, the line splitting the two up.  
> For the fabulous people at "I'd be lost without my blogger" ~Sherlock

It would come eventually. It was only a matter of time and a test of patience before they would step right into the wires of the snare trap that had been lain out before the window.  
Sherlock sat there, musing over the fine workings of the long chase and his carefully crafted plan. From the little table in the window of a quiet, amiable bakery, he could see a wide scope of the street outside.

 

* * *

 

 

John carried small stack of plates into the back to be washed up. When he returned, standing behind the counter, he watched the statue-like man for a moment.

He had come in two weeks ago; first, John saw him darting back and forth past the window outside. Then he came in, sidestepping and taking a few quick leaps across the bakery. It was the most obscure thing John had seen in a while, and made no sense to him, but after a minute of jumping through the shop, the man settled in a seat by the window. He remained there for two hours, not moving, nor giving any indication that he would like to order. John had briefly left the counter to serve another customer, but once he had resumed his position, he saw that the man had disappeared.

The man had returned daily. He never spoke; he never looked anywhere else but through the window. He barely moved, aside from jerking his head slightly in another angle, as if he had spotted something small flitting past his face.

After the first week of this, he broke his pattern for a couple of days.  John had almost worried, before he realised that it was silly, and that maybe he should have insisted, as the man had yet to order anything, the seats were only for customers.  However, the peculiar watchman took to his post again once more, and had continued to survey the street each day at the same point up to today.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes scanned up and down the street. He leaned forward slightly before freezing again, and waiting for his culprit to fall victim to his own habits.  
The bakery was perfect for the purpose. It was quaint enough for an unobservant person to miss, but with the best view of the area, the wide front window enabling Sherlock to monitor the majority of the street, and some of the smaller roads that split off from it. The staff and customers posed very little distraction, and he could comfortably remain in the stakeout without any disruption.

 

* * *

 

 

By this point, the man in the window had securely caught John’s attention. He was curious about what was so interesting about sitting in the window, what was so important that the man would sit completely fixated for two weeks.  
He was tall and slim, his height accentuated by a long coat hanging from his slender, almost lanky frame. His thick, dark curls made contrasted with his pale skin; his sharply pronounced cheekbones hollowed his cheeks, and all together, it gave him a rather gaunt look.  
John only caught short glimpses of the man’s eyes, as he strode in each day, looking around the bakery. They were piercing, cold and a jewel tone of blue, the way they took everything in gave him an astute analytical air.

John thought again on how everything about him seemed pale, and sharp and angular. He looked... unhealthy.  
With a frown on his face, he moved to the other side of the counter, where cakes and pastries were presented on the shelves, protected by the glass. He took a slice from one of the most popular cakes, favoured for its thick lemon buttercream- slightly sharp, creamy with a subdued sweetness- and put it on the plate with a little fork. After pouring freshly brewed tea into a large teacup, he moved everything onto a tray and approached the odd man with a nervous smile.

* * *

 

Sherlock heard footsteps approaching. Size… 9, from the quietness of the steps, they wore padded insoles, as they stood throughout their shift, male, strong built but not as tall judging by the heaviness of the footfalls. The seconds taken to identify the blond who had been watching him for the majority of his time here was unnecessary. There was only one person working in the bakery, custom came frequently enough to keep it running without debt, but quiet enough to need just the single baker.  
The detective didn’t look away from the window, but his gaze flitted downwards when he heard the click of china being placed on the table. A plate holding a generous slice of cake, a large cup of… Earl Grey tea, and a small milk jug of full fat milk.  
“I didn’t request-“he started, before the baker interrupted.

“I know.” He nodded, watching Sherlock, who had returned his gaze to the window. “It’s on me.”  
Now, Sherlock’s attention shifted to the reflection of the smaller man that stood at his shoulder.  
“Since you never eat anything here.” He continued in his pause-laden explanation, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d hate to see you starve to death, in a bakery of all places…” he finished with a nervous laugh.  
“…Ah.” Sherlock replied, with a slight smile.

For a moment, both were quiet. Sherlock’s spindly fingers picked up the fork and sank it into the carefully frosted sponge. He noticed that the other man still stood by him, though his features were not as visible in the faint reflection in the glass, his nervousness was conveyed through him tapping the tray against his leg, and the withheld breath he drew as he hesitated to say more.  
  
Slowly lifting the fork to his mouth, and before eating, Sherlock spoke again “You have questions.”

 

* * *

 

 

The words made a plain statement, but John took them as an invitation. He nodded, and smiled “Yes… Who are you? You’ve been here quite a lot, but you’ve just been staring at the window… Is there something I’m not seeing?”

With a knowing chuckle, the dark haired man turned back to John “Sherlock Holmes, I’m a consulting detective, on a case. I’m sure you’ve seen everything through this window, however. You _see_ , but you do not _observe_.”

  
At that, a frown creased John’s brow. He had never heard of a consulting detective, it sounded more like private investigation rather than police work. Then he worried that his little business would be where the conclusion of some messy crime would end up, and drive away customers. He shook his head and thought on the last comment.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” He admitted.

  
Sherlock shook his head “Of course you don’t.” he beckoned John to stand closer to the window. “You see that car, parked right there?”

Despite being somewhat affronted by the blunt, dismissive tone Sherlock had used, he looked at the car.

“Go ahead; tell me about it.” the detective instructed.

“Er… It’s black, with darkened windows. It’s a Mercedes…” he tailed off.

Sherlock was already shaking his head “I was hoping you’d go deeper than that.” He sighed and cast his eye once more over the sleek car. “The driver likes privacy, and is high up in his job, a businessman, likely. He’s well paid. He doesn’t want much attention outside of  working hours, could be because of the responsibility and pressure put on him at work, could be because he’s avoiding people for a quiet life, just speculation, it’s irrelevant. And… he has a family: two children, one older than the other. The car itself isn’t as new as it seems, but well looked after, it’s the driver’s only car, or most preferred. He’s missed something though, he needs to get his brakes checked and soon…”

The words came tumbling out, like a babbling torrent, but quite the opposite as the words themselves had been thought out and calculated. His speech ran off his quick tongue and baffled John. He wondered if this was just Sherlock voicing what was normally happening in his head. If, when he sat still and silent, and appeared to do nothing, he was simply containing a non-stop rush of thoughts.  
Once Sherlock had finished, looking up at John, he shook his head. “How could you possibly figure that out? You’re making it up, or you know who owns the car.”

He laughed and shook his head, used to people rebuking his inferences. “It’s the most basic example. Look again. The windows are completely blacked out. Some cars will have them tinted, but not so dark, the driver may see out, but no one can see in. That suggests privacy, easy enough.” He launched into an explanation, but spoke slower for John’s sake.

  
“You noticed the make of the car, you know it’s not cheap, and that particular model is popular with your higher level businessmen, you won’t see the office junior in one of those. Now people with a lot of money can afford to attract much more attention, but the car’s owner has still opted for something less conspicuous while still having a luxury.”

His hand gestured vaguely up and down the length of the car, as he continued “The family, well that’s obvious. A young, wealth bachelor is less inclined to choose a saloon car, for one. That, and the two hand prints. One is smaller and lower down, the smaller child has made more of an impression, children fall over, they’re less steady on their feet, this one is four… the second child is older, a larger hand, higher up, but left less of a print, they were shutting the door, not leaning against it.”

  
Now, Sherlock glanced back at John, to see if he was keeping up, but barely took a breath before moving on. “The age of the car, that’s simple too. It’s been cleaned and waxed within an inch of its life, so it looks new and shiny. There’s residue left by the hinge of the door, see?  There’s a mark on the hub cap, which means the tyres have been changed, yet they’ve worn down quicker because of how often it’s been used. The brakes, obvious, there are drops of brake fluid a few inches behind that car, left from when it was parking.”

He turned back to John and smirked “And yes, I do know who drives it, he’s sitting over there, and you can see the badge on his car keys.”

There was a moment of silence, the baker’s eyes flickering between the car and the detective before him.  
“That was… really… very brilliant.” The frown smoothed from his face, and was replaced with a smile.

Sherlock scoffed, although his eyes warmed in the slightest way to show his pleasure at the remark “It’s elementary. When people depend on something, use it frequently, they leave evidence.”  
He took the teacup and sipped from it, looking back out of the window. He placed it on the table again, and speared another bit of cake onto his fork. “You’ve seen how it’s done, now what do you think of me. You’ve been watching me long enough; surely you’ve formed some conclusions?”

John muddled his words up for a moment, taken aback that his attention to the man had gone unnoticed “Er…” He looked at Sherlock, who was facing him again with a quizzical expression. “I’ve no idea” he sighed in defeat.

The detective turned away again, scanning the street. He checked his watch then placed the fork down, drawing his phone from his pocket.  
“I think we’ll be catching our man today, not that it was much of a challenge, merely time consuming.” he told John before making a call.

John took this as a cue to leave, walking back into the kitchen to check on a batch of cakes. He wondered what man Sherlock was after and what case he was on. When he returned to the front of the shop, he saw Sherlock pacing. The taller man looked up at him and crossed the floor in two eager strides.

“I just called Lestrade, police should be on their way, but don’t worry.” His face stretched in a childlike glee “When you watch someone, and get acquainted with their habits, their day to day routine, you notice it when something changes.”

John nodded, thinking back to the hint of concern he felt on the two days Sherlock had not come in.

“Now this particular man, he’s very rigid, set in his ways, checks his watch often… So, when someone breaks their routine…?”

“Something could have changed? Er... Maybe something happened that they hadn’t planned for, and it’s kept them? They think people won’t notice if they slip in a little late?” John attempted to finish the train of thought.

Sherlock nodded “But we did notice…”  
  
Dusting a spot of flour from his jumper, John hesitated. “So I guess you’ll be done here soon?  Now you’re not on the lookout for someone?”

“Yes, it’s almost wrapped up” he replied with a cunning laugh.

“Well, do let me know how it goes, if you’re ever in the area again.” He spoke with a subtle dejected tone in his voice. “You’re welcome back if you ever need to be here again.”

“It’s been of great convenience to me, thank you.”

John just nodded. Sherlock, however, had his attention caught on a stout, anxious looking man scurrying past the window. Without another word, the detective dashed out of the shop, his long coat billowing out behind him.

 

And like that, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

A month later, John leant against the counter with the phone pressed against his ear.

“Harry, honestly, you don’t need to worry. I’ve looked at a few places already… No, it’s just to be closer to work.” He sighed with quiet exasperation.

“John.”

John glanced up at who had come in, muttering quickly into the receiver “I’ll talk to you later, Harry, bye.” and hanging up. He didn’t remember Sherlock ever asking for his name.

“Sherlock, hi… Is there another case?”

“You were a doctor.” He stated.

The blond man nodded, frowning, but let him continue.

“You didn’t like it though… You let it go, and chose this.”

“It was my parent’s choice for me to become a doctor, not mine. They weren’t happy with it, but it just didn’t interest me.”

Sherlock nodded, but gave no explanations in return. “You stay with this Harry, but you’re looking to move out.”

John laughed, and shook his head “Are you going to explain how you knew all that?”

“One of the first days I came in here, there was still post in the basket beneath the letterbox. In it was a letter to Doctor John Watson. You have your mail directed here and not to the place you share, so it’s not a permanent home for you, you were talking just now about looking at other places. They think you’re leaving because of them, they’d be right, you’re not convincing liar. It’s beside the point.” He waved his hand as if he was wiping a slate clean of his thoughts. Then he turned on his heels and leapt into a rapid speech about a case.

John caught words like “bodies”, “murder” and “suicide”, but the further the detective got into the case, the faster he went, getting increasingly worked up, and most of it was lost on him.

“I need a doctor, and a flatmate. This is much better than your old hospital scenes.” He finished, watching him with keen eyes. An almost manic grin spread across his face when a text alert sounded from his pocket.

Before John could answer, he felt a strong hand grab his, and they were both running out of the bakery, the bewildered man having just enough time to flip the door sign to say “closed” before racing through the city streets.

 

 


End file.
